Moments
by The Girl in the Red Jacket
Summary: A collection of Faramir drabbles.
1. Default Chapter

_Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.  
  
Author's Note: This is a series of drabbles I did for the weekly challenges on A'mael. All are somehow related to Faramir and are in something of an order.  
_  
**First Night**  
  
Golden light spilled slowly though the window of the nursery in the White City. A figure stood by the window but his grey eyes rested not on the splendour of the waking morn. They gazed at the tiny bundle in his arms.  
  
His son, sleeping soundly in his father''s arms as the sun rose on the first day of his life. He had helped create this little life......the feeling was overwhelming.  
  
He would lay down his life for the infant sleeping in his arms. He would sacrifice all that he was to spare him but a moment's pain, his dear child. He had been blessed now twice. First, when Boromir came screaming into the world five years early and again with this new babe.  
  
His little one, Faramir.  
**

* * *

Bath Time  
**  
Splash!  
  
"Faramir, if you do not stop that..."  
  
It was meant to be a warning, but the child just giggled, peered up at him with great grey eyes and reached his arms out to be held.  
  
Denethor sighed. Faramir had managed to drain half the bath water. Onto him.  
  
"Faramir..."  
  
"Up!"  
  
Denethor complied, wrapping him in a towel first. Faramir promptly cuddled close, his wet hair clinging to Denethor''s neck.  
  
At least he got out of the bath this time. Normally it was as much a struggle to get him out of the water as it was to get Boromir into it. He snorted. He had a cat and an otter for sons and he was sopping wet too boot.  
  
"Next time, little one, your mother bathes you!"

* * *

**Stars  
**  
He could see the stars through his window when his father gathered him, still half asleep, into his arms. It was still dark out and he could not understand why he had been woken.  
  
He titled his head to look at his father's face. Tracks made silver by the stars glistened on his cheeks and one big teardrop rolled off his face to fall onto his night clothes.  
  
"Papa you're crying!"  
  
Denethor summoned a smile for his son's sake. "You must be brave for me, little one, for I have something awful to tell you."  
  
Faramir pushed his face against his father's neck and waiting, feeling his father's strong arms wrap around him tightly.  
  
"Mama has died."

* * *

**Unwelcome  
  
**Denethor had never felt unwelcome in the rooms of his eldest before. No matter what odds he and his youngest found themselves at he had never before felt his presence unwanted by his eldest.  
  
But now he had ventured into Boromir's rooms and found himself the subject of two wary gazes. One of fright and confusion and pain. The other blatantly hostile.  
  
He had retreated then, back to his study to brood about the matter. He was angry, angry at his eldest for moving when he entered the room, as if to shield his brother and making him feel like an intruder.  
  
Not until later did he realize that it was not the hostility that disturbed him so but the bruises that still marred his youngest' face.

* * *

**Coming of Age**  
  
Maybe I should have stopped him early.  
  
Faramir is giggling and his face is bright red. He's smashed and rather well. I doubt very much he'll remember any of this in the morning.  
  
He will not thank me for allowing him to consume so much ale. He will thank me even less for introducing him to hard liquor. He has only ever had diluted wine before and his natural tolerance...well, it leaves much to be desired.  
  
"Boromir, I do not fell so well," Faramir murmurs, his head flopping in my direction. Oh, he is going to hate me come day break.  
  
But it is not every day your little brother comes of age

* * *

**Blank Pages**  
  
It was not yet dawn when he saddles his horse to depart. His eyes strayed upwards every so often, to the Citadel, where he had spent most of his life to this point.  
  
He left today, to join his company, to being life as a soldier. He had, as instructed, packed light. His instruments remained on the shelves of his room to gather dust beside his many books in his absence. Only three he had taken with him. A gift from his mother, a gift from his father and the last a gift of his brother.  
  
A book of blank pages. A copy of what he had gifted him, when he first road out, so that when their lives were separate, they may not be so far apart.

* * *

**Falls**  
  
It was the waterfall that kept him awake.  
  
The sound had stopped registering with him in the day but once night had fallen and the caves carried a certain stillness the sound kept him awake.  
  
He remembered how the noise made him apprehensive during long nights following battles, water pounding against rocks too close to the pounding feet of Orcs marching through the once fair forest. Yet on other night the nearness of the water comforted him, as on ships to Dol Amroth, when the waves lulled him to sleep.  
  
It differed, the meaning, but always the sound remained with him. One thing, he was certain of that night though.  
  
He really should have refrained from his late glass of ale.

* * *

**Armour  
**  
The river swallowed him and his armour dragged him down into the dark depths. He flailed without result, the surface visible but beyond his reach.  
  
He had swam here as a boy and never had the waters seemed so treacherous then.  
  
His lungs screamed for air, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. He gave a silent prayer, ''See my brother to safety.''  
  
Hands suddenly grasped him under the armpits and he broke the surface, gasping. His armour weighed them both down and they went spurting under. Somehow, slipping under often but always resurfacing, they made it to the shore and collapsed.  
  
Boromir rolled over, his heavy armour creaking, his fingers sliding into Faramir''s wet hair. "Thank you, brother, for my life."

* * *

**Letters  
**  
The Captain had come.  
  
It was an occasion dreaded and welcomed, for whenever he in the city alone he brought news and letters of those who remained.  
  
Welcomed, for it brought news of loved ones a field. Dreaded, because sometimes the letter was one of his own writing.  
  
It was always in his own writing, that final letter, the life changing words,  
  
_ Dearest Madame,  
  
I regret to inform you that your son has died in the service of Gondor..._  
  
He could have passed both writing and delivery to another but he did not shrink from this. His letters of such were long and on rare occasion smudged with his own tears. Small comfort, in a moment of such change and despair.  
  
He never stayed long, the Captain, for whether he brought newfound hope of despair; there were always other letters to deliver.

* * *

**River Boat  
**  
Faramir took another half step towards the boat and fell to his knees in the frigid water. He watched as the river mists swallowed the little boat, taking with it the person he loved most, never to return.  
  
His chest felt tight and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. His head tilted back, his gaze sliding foggily to the stars that hung above, unmoved by the plight of two mortal brothers. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the river seep into his heart.  
  
Footsteps sounded on the bank, then soft splashes of someone striding through water. Mablung's hand rested on his shoulder. His lungs sucked in air again but his gaze remained unfocussed.  
  
"My brother is dead."

* * *

**Allegiance  
**  
Aragorn stood unsurely in the doorway and looked inside. The man resting on the bed before him was not Denethor but he was his son and Boromir's brother. He knew not what kind of reception he would get.  
  
He had been offered allegiance, in a way, but it was not an oath, and the man had been most ill at the time, if on his way to healing. He could not be sure he would be welcomed here by this, the last acting Steward in the King's absence. His father had certainly never welcomed him.  
  
The healer in him came forth, and moved to rest a hand upon the man's brow, checking for fever. Grey eyes, exhausted eyes, cracked open and focused on him.  
  
Faramir struggled to sit up. Aragorn halted him, he was not well enough yet to move about so.  
  
He looked into those eyes, trying to get him to lay still, and his breath caught in his throat. He saw love there, and warmth and respect. Grey eyes, like that of Denethor and Boromir but oh so very different.  
  
"I would swear allegiance, my King, before you depart, so I may better keep your land in your absence."  
  
Aragorn swallowed, took his hands and let him swear before bidding him to rest for he would need his strength in the days to come.

* * *

**Shops**  
  
The stars were the same, he reflected. He had learned them as a boy, from his grandfather, and they were constant, even when all else had changed.  
  
He looked out at the city before him in wonder. Never before had there been such celebration here, such life. All the city seemed to be decked out in lights and even to these heights the music and laughter carried. It lightened his heart and he touched the clasp that fastened his cloak, a gift from a certain lady, and smiled at his own newly found joy.  
  
"She is much changed since I last looked upon her," a regal voice said from behind and Aragorn came to join him looking out at the city. "That was long ago, before your birth, and I fear I have missed much."  
  
Faramir flushed slightly, still unused to the manners of this man, his King. "You came when you were needed, my Lord, and are here now."  
  
Aragorn nodded, his silver eyes searching Faramir's half shadowed face. There was a smile in his voice. "Still, much of the city has changed since I last walked the streets. I know not even where I would buy a pot of honey."  
  
Faramir's ears reddened. He had a weakness for honey, he wondered if the other man knew that. "I suspect if you but ask you would find yourself with more than you needed, my Lord."  
  
Aragorn laughed and clasped Faramir on his good shoulder. "Indeed! Still, I should like to get to know the city again, perhaps you can help me become reacquainted?"  
  
"If you wish, my Lord," Faramir replied, his face still red with embarrassment.  
  
"I am called Aragorn, by my friends." The silver eyes caught his. "And I would have you be among them."  
  
Faramir smiled and ducked his head. "I would like to be counted as such, Aragorn."

* * *

**Kin**  
  
Imrahil had barely a moment to greet his nephew after Faramir knelt before the King and received the White Rod back into his keeping, as he should, Imrahil thought. The King had swept Faramir away with him into the ocean of cheering people.  
  
Imrahil had not seen him since and was impatient to do so for when he had left Faramir had still been weak still and deeply sad. The past seem to linger upon him like a soggy cloak, weighing him down with discomfort.  
  
It was late when he finally found a moment with his nephew, though he had studied him throughout the day. He was glad at what he saw, for a change had come over him and he looked well.  
  
They embraced upon meeting and then Imrahil held his nephew at an arm's length, looking intently at him. "How do fare you, my nephew?"  
  
Faramir's face shone in a grin and his eyes danced as they had not in years. "Uncle, I am in love."

* * *

**Sleep**  
  
It took but a touch of the calloused hands against his brow to rouse him. He moaned sleepily when he tried to move. His back ached and for a moment he wondered why.  
  
Then he felt the papers beneath his face, and the hand touched him again, this time on the shoulder, shaking gently. He flushed and rose hastily, looking up into a face that resembled his father so at that moment.  
  
He had ink on his forehead from his pen and the indent of a stack of papers on his check. He had drooled a bit on the document he had used as a pillow, still in the stages of being written. He flinched, thinking of what a rebuke it would have earned him from his father.  
  
Silver eyes twinkled with mirth and held a hand out to assist him to his feet.  
  
"Come, my Steward, we shall share a drink before you seek your bed. I daresay it is more comfortable than your desk!" 


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.  
  
Author's Note: More drabbles or mini-fics that were done/inspired by A'mael drabble challenges.  
_  
**A Meeting**  
  
He slipped into the stables unnoticed. It felt quiet here. It was not, the stable boys were about and soft noises came from the horses but the last time he had been within these musty walls it had been filled with men strapping on final pieces of armour and riding out with shouts and clatters.  
  
Most, men and beasts, had not returned to the stables.  
  
A soft muzzle brushed against his shoulder and he automatically reached up to touch the soft nose. His head turned and he found himself looking into large brown eyes that seemed very sad, as if the horse too knew his rider would mount him and race across the Pelennor, often singing a bawdy song as he went.  
  
A gift from Denethor, a name from Boromir, a relic of the past, it felt, just as he was. Forgotten, it felt, as he often did in the merriment of victory.  
  
"You treat your horse well, if nothing else," a gruff voice said from behind him.  
  
Faramir turned quickly, hitting his shoulder sharply on the stable wall as he did so and wincing as the healing wound throbbed. The new King of Rohan, brother of his intended, emerged from the shadows where he had been observing him warily. Faramir drew in a ragged breath, unable to speak for the shock of the sudden pain.  
  
"This, however, is not your horse," Eomer said with narrowed eyes. "Why would a man interfere with the horse of another man?"  
  
"This horse belongs, belonged, to my brother, Eomer King," Faramir said quietly, wincing at the probing of another new and more painful wound. "As Boromir of Gondor has departed this world I do his duty for his mount."  
  
The horse in question nudged Faramir gently and turned to look at the horse lord. He sneezed.  
  
Faramir almost smiled. Boromir's horse was as stubborn as his former rider. He allowed none to touch him, save for Boromir and, on the occasion Boromir was not available, Faramir, who he tolerated somewhat uneasily.  
  
Or it had been so. A soft muzzle nudged him again before the neck bent and the great animal sniffed his pockets, searching for the apple hidden there. Faramir gave it to him gladly even as bits of the fruit were flicked into his hair.  
  
"I wonder, Steward, if you would take your own horse out for a ride this day," Eomer smiled somewhat ferally, "I have not yet seen you ride."  
  
"Unfortunately I must attend my King within the hour and have duties that will keep me until well after dark," Faramir replied. The horse nosed his hair. Faramir was surprised he did not attempt to take a bite of his ear, he certainly had before!  
  
Eomer was undaunted, "Tomorrow then? Much can be judged of a man by how he is in the saddle."  
  
Faramir knew well enough not to wince. He was not bad upon a horse, though he had little time to practise, stationed without one, but he was not at his best and would be hindered. "At your leisure, Eomer King."  
  
"I will see you tomorrow then."

* * *

**Seeing**  
  
They brought him before me, dying, I knew, even before I gazed into that cursed stone and all said dying without the knowledge I gained from it. He is dying and he murmurs in his sleep, whimpering for his brother.  
  
All his life, it seems, I know now, he has been searching for but a kind word in my cruel speech and never did I gift him with that. I have not seen him, only that what I hated, that what I was, long ago. I have been blind and now I wait and wish to hear my name upon his lips, a small thing, just a name, to know, perhaps, he did love me, as I could not show him.  
  
I see him now, who he has become, how his dear brother, my golden child, has moulded him, for I take little credit but in making him guarded and unsure of himself. He is a good man, this one, and did his duty with little complaint, though he despised it and I know he did, for I did, though there are difference between us and they glare at me accusingly now, for I would have him become bitter, as I have become, simply because I am.  
  
Poor little lad, I remember him as that and see him before me grown. There was never a moment's peace to be had, was there? And if there was I made it hateful.  
  
We shall have peace now, you and I. Yes, that, if nothing else, I can give you.  
  
Only...speak my name ere we depart, for I would know you are still me son, for all my lacking as a father.

* * *

**Kings  
  
**He stands with Kings, my father ,and I nearly do not recognize him. He looks as if he were a King. He is not, I know, and he does not wish to be, but he looks it.  
  
I told him so once. He laughed and kissed my brow and told me I should have seen his brother. Everyone talks of Boromir the Tall, the Bold, the Fair and how he looked to be a King of old but my father talks of Boromir his brother and weeps upon the anniversary of his death.  
  
And on other days, when he does not stand with Kings before crowds, when he does not look so great he seems distant and untouchable, he is my father and reads to me at night and hugs me close and tells me always that he loves me more than life.  
  
Then he stands apart from Kings and takes me from my mother's arms and laughs when I wind my hand in his hair. He cuddles me close and I feel safe as I put my sleepy head on his shoulder and am glad that his is my father and not a King.

* * *

**Distraction  
**  
He has turned out to be an utter distraction.  
  
It matters not if I am near him, still my mind wanders to him and I find myself thinking of him of what he is doing whilst I learn in the Houses or stroll in the gardens. If we are home, in Ithilien, and the weather is warm I wonder whether he has loosed the fastenings of his tunic, as he is wont to do on sunny days. If we are in Minas Tirith I will wonder whether he has taken his cloak with him, for the stone city can be cold and he does not notice so until he has taken chill.  
  
So I will go and peak into his study and see him there, bent over a parchment, concentrating hard upon it, the very tip of his tongue peaking out of his lips. Loosed tunic or no, I again marvel that such a man as this is my own.  
  
And as he has caused such distraction to me I find it only fair that I return the favour.**

* * *

  
The Ranger  
  
**He spied the soldier walking up to the Citadel with a frown. The man was thin and did not look entirely well, though his face could not be seen for his long dark hair and the position from which the spier watched him.  
  
He frowned. The garb was of a Ranger but he had no council with any of Ithilien until the morrow. Why, then, was this man not in the barracks where he belonged?  
  
A joyful shout of greeting diverted his attention and his eldest bounded into view, his face smiling, his arms spread and he grabbed the soldier into a tight hug, but no hug between mere comrades was this, for his eldest was tender, as was not his way, and held the man gently and with great love even while he held him hard, as if to never let go.  
  
It was then he realized, his heart suddenly heavy with regret, that he had failed to recognize his youngest son.

* * *

  
**Fire**  
  
Through the fire of my skin I feel hands upon my face and a voice, too muddled to understand, reaches my ears. The touch is too hard, it hurts, but my voice does not work to say so and my eyes will not open.  
  
Something cool drips upon my face. It feels not like water and the faint smell I can make out confirms it is not. There is yelling. The heat intensifies.  
  
Someone pushes me and the burning rouses me more fully as I hit the ground sharply.  
  
My father...my father is yelling, screaming, but his words do not make sense. I am right here, can he still not see me?  
  
Foggily, I last see him, through the haze of smoke, fever and fire. I do no understand. Why is he upon a pyre?  
  
At last, his eyes are gentle as they look at me, though shock prevails most of all, and I see him smile, for once, at me.  
  
Then he screams and darkness takes me.

* * *

**Shoulders  
  
**He used to lift me onto his shoulders and twirl in the Dol Amroth sand. We were young then, and had not the cares that load us down today. Little mattered beyond the beach, the sun, the waves and the strength of the shoulders that held me up so high.  
  
I dream. He is grown, his shoulders still strong, and he lifts a...a being that looks like a child, but is not, unto them. The little one laughs, curly golden hair bouncing, and I see another such creature laughing as well. My brother grins.  
  
I know not why I wake with tears upon my face.

* * *

  
**Eyes**  
  
I wake to his face, lines of exhaustion upon it, and have no choice but to met his eyes, for they bore into mine like Dwarven drills. I know nothing and everything of this man, who holds my hands in his own, who fought shadows to bring me back to light and who smiled, tiredly, at me.  
  
Warmth fizzles within me and I know I would follow him to the ending of the world and beyond. Love swells within my breast as his eyes hold mine and I know, beyond doubt, that to this man I will pledge my undying service.  
  
My King.

* * *

**Dentistry**  
  
He heard the howls before he entered the barn turned over into a hasty surgery. There were five men holding him down as another crouched over his mouth.  
  
There was a loud cracking sound another outraged, pain-filled howl, and his brother rolled over, spitting out blood. Faramir went to his side swiftly and knelt by him, a hand rubbing his back as Boromir cradled his jaw and moaned as if he were dying.  
  
Faramir glanced back at his brother's lieutenant, wearing a tired smile and bloody iron tongs.  
  
All that trouble for one little tooth. Tears  
  
His tears fall into my hair and his arms all but crush me against his solid chest. I hold him as tight, not thinking of the bruises I will most likely bear in the morning for it, and press my face against his neck. Together we cling, kneeling on the floor of his tent, boys again.  
  
We have lost many today, too many. Only two others came back. Two. It is not enough.  
  
His leg is injured, my chest is badly bruised, I nearly lost him to the undertow today, and he me, to arrows and the weight of his armour when I returned to the river because I could not bear to lose him, but the worst wounds are upon are hearts, and he weeps for the men who will not return from the river, tears only I will ever see, for he dares not shed them in front of any other, even those we love.  
  
And I dare not shed them at all.

* * *

**Wine  
**  
He is asleep.  
  
The others have not noticed yet, they are too busy squabbling amongst themselves though I think perhaps...yes, my uncle has noticed and we share an amused smile. Councils are boring, more so than I had imagined, and certainly, my father had the rather biting ability to liven them with a few well chosen, if often cruel, words. The King however is not prone to such remarks and, as such, seems to have found his own way of escaping the tedious bickering.  
  
I have a glass of wine to my left elbow. Not my wine, I save my drinking for after the council, but the red wine of a rather pompous lord who has taken up more room than the late Forlong did at half the good man's size!  
  
My elbow slips...  
  
The lord leaps to his feet, sputtering delightfully, with wine red stains on his overly elaborate robes. I catch the eye of my King as hasten to make my apologies. He blinks, smiles, and dips his head ever so slightly.**

* * *

**

** Knight  
**  
I see him through a haze, concerned eyes peering down at me, kind voice calling to me through the shadows that have plagued me for so long. I fight them, but they are swiftly overcoming me.  
  
"Uncle...my men...?"  
  
I gasp it and he smiles very briefly and puts a hand upon my brow tenderly. I hear not the answer, for all goes black, the darkness dragging me down even as I struggle against it.  
  
I feel them lift me, as something akin to consciousness returns, I hear his voice and know it is he supporting me upon the horse.  
  
A hint of amusement comes to me before the blackness calls again. My aunt, departed years now, used to teasingly call him her knight in shining armour, and now, as he bears me gently home, I wonder if I should not do the same

* * *

**Starry Mantle  
**  
She was beautiful, I know, with eyes that reminded me of the sea where Uncle lives. And I remember her being kind. She never greeted me without a smile. Papa was happier when she was here too.  
  
Sometimes, Boromir still tells me stories about her. But three years have passed since she died, and it's getting harder for us to remember even what she looked like. All I can see clearly is the star-embroidered mantle that she left behind.  
  
I look up at the sky, sprinkled with stars just like the mantle, wondering if she would be proud of me.  
  
**

* * *

Wizard's Pupil  
**  
The wizard did not sit, Denethor noted, meaning he wanted this audience to be short. He felt a short surge of pleasure to know if he wished he could have made the wizard wait all day, deny him entrance to the archives, even...  
  
Perhaps it would teach the meddlesome buzzard a lesson, that the Steward of Gondor would not be controlled by wizards...  
  
"Father!"  
  
"Faramir, what have I told you about knocking?" Denethor asked, levelling his gaze at his youngest son.  
  
Faramir shrank back a bit from the glare. "The door was not shut. I thought...I did not think anyone else was here, sir."  
  
"Please check next time, child," Denethor sighed, somewhat mollified. He gestured for Faramir to come forward, pointedly ignoring the wizard. "What have you there?"  
  
Faramir beamed, "I finished my lessons early and the archivist asked if I would help him find a book you requested and I found it."  
  
Denethor permitted himself the smallest of smiles at Faramir's enthusiasm. He was clutching the large, dusty book to his chest as if it were a precious jewel. "Well done, lad."  
  
"And who is this budding scholar, my Lord Steward?" The wizard asked, reminding Faramir of the stranger in the room with them. Denethor had not forgotten.  
  
"This is my son, Faramir," Denethor replied stiffly, putting his hands on Faramir's shoulders and turning the boy about. "Faramir, this is Mithrandir, the grey wizard."  
  
"The quest for knowledge is always a noble one, young sir," Mithrandir told the boy, smiling kindly. Faramir smiled shyly in return. "My lord Steward, as your son seems to have a knack for finding dusty old books and has some free time on his hands and as I am looking for dusty old books and have little time on mine, perhaps he could aid me in the archives? I teach him a bit of lore, as well, seeing as his tutor deems him a quick pupil."  
  
Denethor's lips tightened even as Faramir's face lit up. The wizard knew many tales which he knew well Faramir would adore. "That is agreeable. Faramir, you will behave yourself, and not get underfoot."  
  
"Yes, sir," Faramir looked up, grinning. "Thank you, father."  
  
"See what you can learn from him," Denethor replied. "He will, I know, be a useful teacher."  
  
What Mithrandir read in his words he did not say, but Faramir smiled and gave his father the book and followed the wizard his a bounce in his short steps. Denethor sat behind his desk and stared blankly for a moment, not sure why he felt a strange sense of foreboding. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.  
  
Author's Note: A series of three drabbling mini-fics that talk about a character who was not in Requeim but who will be involved in one of the prequels to it which is being called at the moment Coming Of Age and involves, mostly, Elboron and Faramir with cameos by quite a few people. Anyway, this is something of his back story.  
_  
**A Birth**  
  
It began with a wail.  
  
The babe was red faced and squalling when he was first set into his father's arms. The Ranger held him hesitantly, this his son, so small, with a shock of dark hair and small fists waving. He smiled at his wife, who was laying exhausted and glowing on the bed, her dark hair sweaty and tangled from her exertions. She grinned at him, and winked.  
  
"What is the babe's name, sir?" the midwife asked, taking the infant from his father.  
  
"Tarbor," his mother replied, and her husband smiled, for the name had been his choice. "Tarbor, son of Damrod."  
  
**A Death**  
  
Gladhiell, widow of Damrod, had refused to leave their home when the summons for evacuation came. Her mother was bedridden, and could not be moved, and she would not leave her. Perhaps, had her husband not died in the retreat...but she did not think of such things, only set about barricading herself into the small bedroom, and arming herself, for she would not let the beasts have her without a fight, her Damrod had taught her something of knife work.  
  
It was not until after all the woman and children had left that she thought to send her own son, only months old, with them. The child slept so peacefully, so quietly, and her grief and rage so consumed her, she forgot to think of him at all until the chance had passed.  
  
It was not the Orcs who killed her in the end, nor her old mother, whose heart gave out as the battle raged about them, but as the world fell to pieces about them a rock struck her hard upon the head as she knelt clutching her little son to her breast, both arms supporting his head and back.  
  
When the Orcs came through the city they but paused at the sight of two dead women, pursuing soldiers was their pleasure, and did not see the injured babe shielded by his mother's corpse.  
  
**A Wedding**  
  
"Captain!"  
  
Faramir turned and laughed as he caught the five year old, dark haired, whirlwind of a child up into his arms. The little boy glowed at the attention, as young children do from favourite people, and the Captain was one of his most favourites!  
  
"Hello, little soldier," Faramir greeted, shifting the boy's weight. His Rangers' habit of addressing him by no other title than Captain was being picked up by their children. "Excited today, are you?"  
  
The child nodded, squirming, "Papa is getting married!"  
  
"Yes, and you are acquiring a mama, what think you of that?" Faramir asked with a smile.  
  
The boy glowed with happiness. Faramir chuckled. "And where is your papa?"  
  
"Being sick in the bushes," was the reply, with no trace of tact. Faramir laughed outright.  
  
"Shall we go find him and make sure his stomach is settled then?" Faramir asked.  
  
The boy nodded. "My new mama would not like him to be sick on her dress!"  
  
They found Mablung by the side of his half finished house, his face pale as he took a long drink of water, gargled and spit. He turned at their approach, ears sharp even feeling wretched, and his eyes smiled.  
  
"Captain," Mablung greeted, smiling slightly at the sight of the boy leading the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien about by the hand. "You have found yourself a keeper, I see."  
  
"You should be careful, old friend, he may try to take your place," Faramir replied. They embraced briefly and the one time Ranger stooped to look at his adopted son.  
  
"You have not been getting into mischeif, have you Tarbor?" Mablung asked his son, smiling at the boy. "I will find no frogs in the punch? No baby mice in your pockets?"  
  
"No, papa!" Tarbor replied. "Being good!"  
  
Mablung grinned, and scooped the boy up into his arms with one swift move, making the child giggle. "Good. Well. Shall we go get married, then?"  
  
He looked decidedly green about it. Tarbor giggled and kissed his papa on the cheek. "You are getting married, not me!"  
  
Mablung snorted, "We are both of us getting hitched, my lad, me with a wife and you with a mother."  
  
"'M glad," Tarbor murmured against his father's neck.  
  
"Ah, child, so am I," Mablung told him, blowing his son's hair, making him giggle again.  
  
Mablung danced that evening often with his new wife and often with Tarbor on his shoulder, his son squealing with delight as they twirled about. 


End file.
